Page 37 of Ruin of Revenants

But the back involved a series of laces I couldn’t reach, and though I’d ran a comb through my hair, it was nothing compared to the elaborate styles Orchid could surely accomplish.

“You must send for Orchid,” I called.

“There’s no time,” Archer shot back.

I hesitated in the entrance to my room, studying the prince, who was sitting on the edge of my bed, mussing his golden hair and fidgeting with the buttons on his own crisp black and red jacket. An odd pang shot through me, and I frowned. Was it my own anxiety, or was I sensing his? I shoved the thought away.

“You’ll have to do the laces on the back.”

I strode into the room, suddenly feeling a little shaky, and turned away so he couldn’t see my expression. Archer didn’t say a word as he stepped up behind me. “You had to choose the brightest, most feminine dress,” he muttered, close enough I could feel his breath on my skin.

Unfortunately, I’d been too nervous to remember to move my hair. Archer’s fingers were already in it, twining through the strands in a manner reminiscent of how he’d caught me by the hair when we’d first met. I grit my teeth, nerves rising, but the prince released it as quickly as he’d grasped it, like he was overcome with disgust.

I exhaled with relief.

But then my stomach tightened as Archer’s calloused fingers brushed against my skin as he grasped the laces. I waited for him to tug roughly, tightening the bodice to some unbearable degree, but he was oddly gentle, his fingers swift and making as little contact as possible each time he slipped the laces through and tightened them.

The silence between us was breathless, every emotion heavy with discomfort. Each brush of his fingers made me tense; each time he exhaled, his warm breath grazing the back of my neck, I felt goosebumps rise.

He didn’t tease. He didn’t mock. And my dry mouth didn’t allow me to either. Instead, he finished the task wordlessly.

“Time to go,” he said brusquely. “You’ll have to go with your hair down.” He hesitated at the doorway, still refusing to look at me. “Maybe wearing a dagger would offset how delicate the dress makes you look, but we don’t have time and I don’t trust you with my weapons. You’d probably trip and kill yourself with one somehow. Stay close to me tonight, or the entire court will eat you alive.”

As a child, I’d been taught it wasn’t unusual for the fae of Emberglade, with their power strongest under the constellation representing Umbryon, God of Night, to keep nocturnal hours during the dry season when it shone bright in the sky. Everhaven, with our need of the sun’s power, had never lived that way, but, once we’d left the capital and my memories of it had faded, I had often imagined it was a world of wild parties and feasts and dances beneath the moon.

Though we weren’t in Rainsong’s nocturnal dry season, entering the party under the stars was a lot like seeing my imagination come to life. In the fragrant palace gardens beside a vast pond surrounded by trees cloaked in hanging moss and vines, the only decor needed was that which nature had already provided. Lilies bloomed along the path leading toward the festivities, fireflies made the pond surface glisten, and palms swayed against the bejeweled sky. While musicians played heady music, fae indulged themselves in fine foods and wines spread out on tables under the palm trees before coupling off to talk or dance or vanish into the shadows.

King Wystan was already seated in a carved wooden armchair, heavily cushioned and propped up on a hillock to resemble a dais. Beside him were two other throne-like chairs, one already occupied by Princess Briar. She, like Archer, must have taken after their mother, Queen Acacia, because she didn’t have the king’s eerie orange eyes, horns, or corpse-like skin either. Everything about her was stunning: from her glossy red waves, her striking features, and her vivid blue eyes framed by thick lashes. She knew she was beautiful too, preening as she accepted compliments and declarations of love from a small army of suitors all lined up to have a few moments of her time.

Archer paused at the edge of the party, where a male with shaggy red hair and the eyes and legs of a goat stood waiting to announce us. This time, there was no mistaking Archer’s anger and annoyance as my own. The feelings curled around him like smoke, heavy and cloying.

“I see Father decided to start the insults early, not preparing a throne for my betrothed.”

The goat-fae’s eyes widened. “Y-Your Highness, we can surely provide—”

With a wide, charming smile, Archer waved away the servant’s concerns. “No need to trouble yourself. This is not your fault and of no concern to you, Red. This is between the king and me.”

Red smiled and dipped his head in grateful relief, easily warmed by Archer’s friendliness.

“Come,” Archer said, holding out his arm without sparing me a glance.

I slipped mine into his, trying to pretend I was eager to be paraded in front of a court that would relish my death if they knew what I was.

Without being announced, Archer slipped into the crowd to a flurry of bows, curtsies, and eager greetings. Their eyes strayed to me, but it seemed an unspoken understanding that they needed to wait until I was presented by King Wystan before they could engage with me or ask Archer about me.

“Thank you for protecting us from the phoenix threat,” one female said, and he graciously took her hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it.

“My pleasure,” he said, all white teeth and starlit eyes.

He continued to ignore me as others approached, speaking of the “countryside” of Emberglade and the “vile threat the feathered monstrosities posed.” My stomach dipped at the casually hurled insults and deeply-held belief in utter lies that the fae who were supposed to be my fellow citizens shared. Their venom was practiced, their hatred old and engrained, like a comfortable outfit they’d worn for so long, they didn’t realize how violent and abhorrent they sounded. Or ignorant.

I chewed on the inside of my cheek. Some fae live for bloodshed no matter what, I reminded myself, thinking of trolls and goblins and their cruel ways. But this was different—a targeted violence only for a certain type of fae and his or her magic.

Bird-brains.

Arsonists.

Necromancers.